“Nope. No way. Danny Marcus can get you paid or he can get you high, but he doesn’t give up information like a little bitch,” Marcus auto-responded, and screw this. They needed answers before this scenario went tango uniform.
Kellan stepped in, close enough to make Marcus shrink against the back of the bench. “I think you know exactly what we’re talking about, just like I know you aren’t going to get another chance to start sharing before Detective Moreno hauls your sorry ass out of this park with your hands zip tied behind you in front of God and everyone else. Then they’ll all think you’re a little bitch no matter what, and that word’s gonna travel fast. You really like your odds here?”
After a second, Marcus bit out a curse, dropping his voice to a whisper even though the path still remained dark and quiet in either direction. “You don’t get it, man.”
“Explain it to me,” Moreno said, reclaiming Marcus’s attention as she moved back into the halo of golden light being cast down from overhead.
Miraculously, he did. “Operations like the one you’re after are on a whole different food chain than this nickel and dime shit. Guys like Rampage are bad enough. But his boss? That dude is fucking scary, yo. You cross a guy like that, you end up in the dirt.”
Kellan’s heart beat a steady rhythm of bad things against his ribs as Isabella moved within a foot of Marcus’s dance space. “All I need is a little chatter, Danny,” she said, her stare never leaving his. “You and me, we’re just having a conversation. Nobody’s crossing anyone else, and nobody’s going to know we talked. I swear it.”
Whether it was her dead-serious tone or the look in her eyes that matched, Kellan would never know, but something pushed Danny to say, “There are these parties in one of the penthouse apartment suites at the Metropolitan, you know, over on the south side? Real lush, like Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, only more tricked out. It’s exclusive invite only. I had to introduce Rampage to a dozen fucking girls before he’d even think about name dropping me to his boss so I could get in to play, and I still have to pay my way in with merchandise for his guests.”
“Whose does the penthouse belong to?” Moreno asked, but Marcus just huffed out a breath, twisting his hand to not-so-subtly test the strength of the zip tie keeping him anchored to the park bench.
“Beats me. I didn’t ask to see the deed.”
Kellan had closed half the space between his body and the bench before he’d even processed his brain’s command to move. “Marcus—”
Danny’s shoulders slumped into his two-sizes-too-big T-shirt, and he finally called no joy. “Look, I don’t know whose place it is. But the place is full of fancy art shit and there’s more security than most border patrols, so if I had to guess, I’d say it’s Casa de Boss Man. Goes by Mr. DuPree. And before you ask, no, I don’t know his first name.”
Moreno slid a glance at Kellan, stepping forward at the exact moment he orbited back to give the area around them a spot check.
“Sounds like Mr. DuPree knows how to throw a hell of a get-together. Bet he offers his guests some nice party favors to keep them entertained.” Isabella’s words emerged on a thin, soft breath, but they managed to send a pang through Kellan’s gut all the same.
The sensation grew teeth at Marcus’s nod. “Liquor, pharmaceuticals, women. Public or private, one-on-one or four-on-one, it doesn’t matter. There aren’t a whole lot of house rules, but you fuck in public, DuPree gets to watch. Bonus points for banging your girl around while you do it. I don’t know that from firsthand experience,” he added, jerking back against the bench slats again as Kellan’s fingers cranked into hot fists on a step forward. “He just makes it real clear for everybody across the board. Watching is his thing. I told you, he’s goddamn creepy.”
Jesus. “I’m guessing these women aren’t there by choice,” Kellan said, the thought souring as it crossed his lips.
Marcus shrugged, although the flicker of unease traveling through his stare canceled out the nonchalance. “I’m not dumb enough to ask any questions. They get tricked out five, maybe six times a night, and some of the guests can get kind of rough. But none of the girls ever try running for the door. I’m sure they get paid for their trouble.”
“And I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night,” Moreno said, her stare turning subarctic.
Indignation straightened Marcus’s spine. “Hey, I don’t smack my ladies around unless they like it that way. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Yup. There went the last thread of Kellan’s already flimsy tolerance. “No, you’re a jackass who deals heroin and pays for sex with women who are being turned out, most likely against their will.”